The Sound of the Unfathomable
by spheeris1
Summary: AU :: Spencer POV :: Angst. Introspection. Music. Inevitable romantic entanglements. :: "Of course, she wants to forget. Of course, she wants to remember, too." :: Spencer/Ashley
1. a note from your author

**An Author's Note-**

So, for those of you who keep up with my stories on this site (and some of you do, which is amazing & I thank you), you will notice that this new story is taking precedence over _Artifice_. Perhaps you are dismayed that _Artifice_ has reached an impasse. I am dismayed as well. I can only blame it on a lack of motivation that kicked in due to various reasons – with the most noticeable reason being that this new story has, effectively, consumed my brain.

You may ask yourself, 'will _Artifice_ ever be finished?' I have every intention of finishing it, I do! But the when of the finishing is truly up in the air at this point. Again, blame this new story of mine for taking up the creative space in my head.

However, in a show of total honesty, it is true that I have found myself drifting in the world of fandom. And by 'drifting', I mean that I am slowly moving away from the _South of Nowhere_ fandom & into other things. I do believe that I have finally reached my saturation point of what I can do with Ashley and Spencer. Of course, I never **truly** say never – chances are that I'll wander back one day for a fix of teenage angst but after this new fic is done (and regardless of the status of _Artifice_), I am hanging up my SON hat.

Okay. I wanted to settle that first & foremost.

Now, this current story. A few notes about it and then we can all move on.

1st: I am going to put up this little note to check the formatting. FF dot Net is a real bitch when it comes to certain documents and I am really picky about how my fanfiction looks. So, if the AN is on here and then down again – don't worry, it shall return as soon as possible, followed by the introduction/prologue-ish thing.

2nd: I got the idea for this story as I was driving home one day (my nice two hour commute) and was listening to some Neko Case. This was back in late March/early April. I got the idea and toyed with it and thought I might even write something original. But Ashley Davies's damn face got in my head and kind of took off with the plot, so I shelved the 'original story' angle. I might take it and change names one day, though – if I actually think it is that good. So, if the whole thing ever disappears from this site then you will know what happened.

3rd: Those of you with a sharp sense of musical knowledge will, hopefully, enjoy this thing. Those of you who dig on introspection will most definitely enjoy this thing. Those of you who might live or have once lived in Mississippi will probably recognize the fact that I have never lived in Mississippi – all I ask is that you suspend disbelief and carry on.

All good? Good. ;-)


	2. one

_"There are certain sounds that stay with us. _

_It is as if these beats and rhythms are hardwired into the very threads of our DNA; these strands go along with nucleotides to create the blueprint of the human form. Much like George Bailey in 'It's A Wonderful Life' commenting on the three greatest sounds in the world ('anchor chains, plane motors, and train whistles'), the cacophony around us is not just white noise, but the call to home or the siren to new shores. _

_It is the thumping of a lover's heart. It is the first time we hear our mother's voice in delicate song, lulling us to a peaceful sleep._

_Is it this phenomenon that causes our collective ears to perk up when our favorite track floats out of the speakers? Is it this embedded, but still unfathomable, chemical lurking in our blood that causes us to scream in the front row - without inhibition, without shame? Are any of us able to withstand the music that comes from another person's soul, even if it brings us nothing but sorrow?_

_And if we could avoid this trick of nature, would we ever choose to do so?"_

**)( )( )(**

Spencer stops typing and her fingers hover over the keys of her laptop. She re-reads the text just the once, trying - in vain - to ignore the tightness in her chest. It is a sensation that she thought would fade. It is a pain that Spencer thought would dissipate the further she moved away and the longer she worked and the busier she kept her calendar.

It is a discomfort that she thought could be managed.

However, underneath her soft cotton shirt and beyond the flesh, there works an anguish that refuses to be silent. And when that agony awakens, when it barrels past her meager defenses, Spencer is left with nothing but memories like bullets to her skull.

Of course, she wants to forget.

Of course, she wants to remember, too.

Spencer closes her laptop, knowing that she will send another email to Aiden and come up with another excuse as to why this piece for the magazine is not done.  
>He will decide to believe her, because they are friends, but his voice will hold that mixture of worry and disappointment that Spencer has come to expect these days.<p>

And, of course, Spencer will spend the rest of the morning forgetting it all.

And, of course, Spencer will spend the rest of her life remembering it all, too.

**)( )( )(**


	3. two

_[one year earlier]_

**)( )( )( **

Spencer looks up with a tiny jolt of surprise as a battered cassette case drops onto her desk, landing with a clatter among the chaotic order of press releases, cds, and her ever-present legal pad of barely legible notes (black ink scratches on bright yellow).

She shifts her focus from the cassette to her boss, Aiden Dennison, and the small grin gracing his lips.

"You've got other writers to pick on, Dennison. I am **not** the one to scrounge up some kind of enthusiasm for the return to Memorex chic. My boombox days are over, thanks." Spencer says with a dismissive wave of her hand and then turns back to the screen, still not liking the flow of her latest review of the latest album from the latest craze of the minute.

The public likes to think that they are worthy of witty snark coupled with thoughtful commentary when it comes to album reviews, whereas Spencer Carlin would be just as happy to affiliate her name with the simple statement of "this sucks, don't buy it."  
>But, no, all those years at college had to be for something, right? And every single second of her internship was a lesson in how to kiss the world's ass while simultaneously kicking it.<p>

Spencer can feel Aiden still standing in her office, so she decides to ignore the reason for his lingering and pull him into some of her inner thoughts.

"If you had to make it seem like you give a damn about some young boy with a lesbian hair-cut when, really, all you **want **to do is run over his cd with a steamroller, what would **you** do? I'm leaning towards getting drunk." Spencer rattles this off in a very matter-of-fact sort of way and Aiden chuckles a little bit. She catches the slight shaking of his head as well and that causes her to grin.  
>"What you need to do, Carlin, is listen to some real music."<br>"You think? Because, you know, a good shot of whiskey sounds like music to my ears right now..."  
>"C'mon. Aren't you at <strong>all<strong> interested?"

Spencer doesn't have to ask what Aiden is referring to. The cassette case sits there, the surface marred with scratches, looking like something one finds in an attic or basement - dusty with someone's past, covered up with metallic melodies caught in time.  
>Spencer sighs as she picks it up, turning it over and over between her fingers.<p>

"Fine. Who is it?"  
>"It was buried under the stack of mail in my box downstairs. No name with the return address, but there is a name on the tape label."<p>

She opens the case up, glancing at the bold letters of a name in felt strokes - Ashley Davies - then shuts the case once more.

"It's a demo of some kind then?"  
>"Honestly, I don't think so. It doesn't even sound like someone just, you know, singing into a microphone in their bedroom or something. The song sounds a bit muted, as if they are being recorded from a distance."<br>"No letter to go along with it?"  
>"Nope. Just a name on a tape and this address."<p>

Aiden extends the manila envelope and Spencer takes it, checking out the front, back, and the inside, before sitting it down on her desk. The same penmanship used for the name on the cassette tape is apparent with the address, a phantom seemingly writing from far beyond the Mason/Dixon line.

At Spencer's continued silence, Aiden noisily plops down in the only other chair in the room.

"This could be a great story, Spencer."  
>"How's that?" Spencer mutters, still bouncing her gaze between the tape and the envelope.<br>"Are you being serious? Some mysterious tape lands in our laps, with this pretty good singer on it, and we know nothing but some vague location in... Where was it again?"  
>"Mississippi. Morgantown, to be exact."<br>"See? Some mysterious woman from Morgantown sends us a cassette of her song, never thinking she'd actually be heard and yet all her dreams are about to come true..."

Spencer rolls her eyes in a not-so-hidden way and Aiden shrugs his shoulders, nonplussed.

"Hey, I'm not the writer here." He says as an explanation.  
>"That much is obvious." Spencer replies with a good-natured grin as she casually leans back in her own chair.<p>

Spencer watches Aiden closely, not sure if she likes the wheels that she knows are spinning in his head at this very moment. When the gears start grinding in Aiden Dennison's mind, it usually does not bode well for anyone - especially his favorite writer on staff.  
>He is meeting her gaze easily enough but that confidence is thrown off by the sneaky glint to his eyes, as if that ace is still up his sleeve and ready to be played.<br>Spencer doesn't like this sight at all and her somewhat aloof stare grows a little hard.

"Aiden..." She warns with the tone of her voice and that devious shine only turns more luminous upon Aiden's face.  
>"Hmm?"<br>"What are you going to have me do with this 'great story'?"  
>"I'm going to have you write it, of course."<p>

Spencer groans unhappily as Aiden stands up again, smiling at her in way that is as warm as it is wicked. It reminds her of her two older brothers and all the antics they used to put her through when she was a kid. Those incidents are amusing now but they were not funny at the time. And this situation is annoyingly similar to Spencer - a game she does not want to participate in and, yet, she is forced into the fray.

Aiden reaches out and sort of ruffles her hair, completing this sibling-like moment they are sharing. Spencer merely scowls at him from beneath strands of disrupted blonde locks.

"Listen to it today or tonight. Believe me, you'll be more intrigued once you do."

Aiden winks at her as he walks out of her office. And for the next couple of hours, Spencer goes out of her way to **not** listen to the cassette. She has no real excuse, other than her own irritation. Being a music writer, one could assume that she'd jump at the chance to investigate some random singer and possibly be the one to 'discover' an untapped talent.  
>However, after seven years of slogging through the business, Spencer is sad to say that she is feeling the sharp sting of burn-out.<br>What started as a way for her to express her love of music and her devotion to the craft of artistic creation has slowly become a realm of cutting out the good parts to save face, of whole articles about teen superstars (who have no talent) and a few sentences about lesser known bands (who practically reek with ability).  
>Even if the person on this cassette tape is so good that the distorted hum and hiss of analog does not ruin their timbre, the men in the suits will turn it all into a circus. It'll be American Idol, it'll be Entertainment Tonight and Spencer Carlin will become synonymous with the gnawing teeth of celebrity culture.<p>

She'd rather die. She'd rather walk away now and never write another word.

These are her usual sentiments, though. She'll bat around the idea of leaving then she'll blow out a frustrated breath and put her nose back to the grindstone.

She'll even break down and listen to the cassette tape, too.

Eventually.

**)( )( )(**

Spencer is reminded of a time in her own childhood, a trip taken with her family, long before divorce split them all apart at the seams. The five of them packed tightly into a mini-van, rolling along the interstate with sunlight bright in their faces and the red rocks of the southwest rising up at every turn.

It was one of the last times they were all happy with one another.

This song is coming from around the corners of some canyon Spencer once looked upon, an echo that she heard long before she caught sight of the lips that formed the words.  
>This song grows from soft to steady as smoothly as a stream flows and turns into a river.<br>It is not a complicated melody. It is not auto-tuned or over-produced. There is no backing vocals, nor the common disturbance of an unruly audience.

Just a voice seemingly getting closer and closer to the microphone, wistful and sure at the same time.  
>Just a guitar being strummed with more and more strength as the seconds go by.<p>

For a minute, Spencer is right back there with her brothers, with her parents, and with the summer stretched out before her like a golden and gleaming road. For a minute, Spencer can feel the warmth of holding Glen's hand as they climbed further and further up, chasing after their parents as they laughed. For a minute, it isn't just a lost snapshot, but a beautiful reality near enough to touch.

Spencer stops the tape abruptly, shocked and somewhat angry at the rush of emotion boiling up in her body. These are things that she does not normally think about. These are things that she has packed away and put on the shelf within her mind.

Or so she thought. Or so she wants to believe.

This hazy and ethereal composition, though, is dragging up hours better left for dead.  
>It is doing what all good songs are supposed to do, pushing the door open and asking you to step into the space created. So, Spencer walks - albeit reluctantly- into the room that this Ashley Davies has presented.<p>

She'll think about Aiden's gloating-to-come later.

**)( )( )(**

"Are you for **real**, Dennison?"  
>"Why would you think I am not 'for real', Carlin?"<br>"Oh, I don't know, maybe I think you have lost your **mind** because you are telling me to go to some random town-"  
>"Not a random town, Spencer – it's Morgantown."<br>"I don't give a fuck. I am not flying down to Morgantown, Mississippi, for some story about a person **neither** of us knows and that no one else seems to know about either."

Aiden raises one eyebrow at her in response and Spencer folds her arms resolutely across her chest.

"Yea, I'm a journalist, remember? You pay me to check out information. Want to know what I found out about Ashley Davies? **Nothing**. Not a show, not a single track mentioned online or in a paper, not even a damn address for that name in Morgantown."

Aiden opens his mouth to say something but Spencer jumps in quick to cut him off.

"Look, I'm not saying that whoever is on that tape isn't good, okay? They are. I mean, it is all lo-fi and as grainy as sand, but... but it is **good**..." Spencer trails off at Aiden's tiny shit-eating grin and she rolls her eyes pointedly.  
>"<strong>What<strong>?"  
>"Oh, nothing. I just knew you'd like it once you heard it."<br>"Good, great for you, Aiden. You were right. For once in your life."

They trade well-practiced smirks before Aiden reaches out, disregarding their flimsy professional barriers, and lightly grips Spencer's shoulders. He gives them a firm squeeze to gather her attention.

"Spencer, we're friends, right?"  
>"...I suppose so."<br>"And as your **friend**, not your boss, this is what you need. You need a real story to sink your teeth into, bring back some of that fire."

Spencer fixes him with a small glare but the man does not back down.

"That's not fire, Spencer. That's annoyance."

She sighs, hating that he is right and that she is thoroughly annoyed, and gently pushes away from him. Spencer walks over to the window of her office, glancing out at all the life moving below - taxis and buses darting around each other, people still bundled up in their winter coats even though March is finally here, the steam seeping up from the ground buried beneath the pavement - and she leans her forehead against the glass.

"That obvious, hmm?" She mumbles just loud enough for Aiden to hear and comment on.  
>"Yes. At least to someone actually looking."<br>"It's just that this used to be more fun, you know? I used to get a thrill out of transferring the love of a song onto the page. Now it's just work."

Aiden's return is just behind her, a confident intonation that slides past her ears and into her chest. And some little part of Spencer can't help but listen and hope for it to be true.

"This story will make it fun again, Spencer. Just give it a chance. What do you have to lose?"

**)( )( )(**


	4. three

**)( )( )(**

According to Google Maps, it can take almost twenty hours to drive from New York to Marion County, Mississippi. That's not even taking into consideration the stops one must make to eat, to use the bathroom or to take a photograph of whatever road-side oddity that creeps up.  
>There is also the realm of Morgantown to contend with on this journey. The title 'Morgantown' seems to lurk everywhere in the state - a cemetery in Foxworth; an elementary school in Natchez; a road off of MS-12, not too far from the Alabama border. As if realizing that the old adage is true, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it", the people of Mississippi obviously knew a good name when they heard it and were content to spread it around.<p>

For an unseasoned traveler or for one who isn't just naturally methodical with their fact-checking, a trip like this could come off as a bit of a nightmare.  
>Spencer Carlin, though, is forever thankful for zip codes and Aiden Dennison's substantial financial worth. Before she agreed to this idea of seeking out some elusive singer in the South, Spencer made sure that her needs were taken care of, right down to pocket change for packs of gum. The airplane ticket to Gulfport? Aiden. The rental car? Aiden. Cash for a room, for food, and for assorted traveling expenses? Aiden, Aiden, Aiden.<br>The man's sigh was resigned and drawn out as funds were transferred to Spencer's account. She took every opportunity to remind him that this was his idea and he could always ask another writer at the magazine to traipse off to Mississippi.

However, Aiden just smiled at her fondly as he backed out the door of her office.

"I want the best on this one, Carlin. That means you." He said easily with a small wave of his hand and then he was gone.

Instead of twenty hours on the road, it is seven hours or so in the air, one of those hours being a lay-over in Houston. Instead of her blue-eyed gaze being trained to a map until she feels practically blind with weariness, it takes about two hours of following black lines upon thin paper to find her way from the Gulfport/Biloxi International Airport to the northwest corner of Marion County.

It doesn't take long before Spencer finds herself very much away from the congested streets of the city that she knows and calls home. She has even managed to lose the traffic from the airport in Gulfport, watching cars and trucks become sparser with every patch of cracked pavement that these tires tread over.

It is just Spencer and the fluttering leaves of a variety of trees that line Highway 587, with differing shades of green as each leaf turns with the wind; dark forest colors when they face you head on and a pale network of veins as a thunderhead looms from behind, signaling a storm to come.  
>It is just Spencer and a cassette tape sitting on the passenger seat; a fellow traveler by her side that gives up nothing and reveals no hints as to what will be found once the destination is reached.<p>

The first raindrops start to hit the windshield as Spencer slows the rental car down, looking at the printed out directions in her hand and then looking past the glass to the front of a church.  
>It's the right address. It is the same address from the envelope.<br>But what she thought might be a house, or even a bar, has turned out to be the Morgantown Church of God.

"Dennison, what kind of ridiculousness have you gotten me into?" Spencer growls out loud to herself as she parks the car. She sits there for a couple of long minutes, staring at the church building through the steady stream of rain. There isn't another automobile in the parking lot. There isn't a light shining through the windows, though that could be hard to ascertain since the glass seems to be tinted to the point of being black.  
>The church is as quiet as the cassette tape and Spencer slides a glance to her mysterious companion. She picks up the case and runs the tip of one finger over the plastic edges, allowing her thoughts to drift to the voice found on this ribbon of magnetic brown.<br>She isn't sure if it was the method of recording that added another level of depth to the singer's voice or not, but it certainly did not hurt the quality.  
>The woman's voice sounds weathered and, yet, that voice sounds more alive than the hundreds of pop stars being churned out in L.A.<br>It is the kind of voice that carries the weight of someone who has lived through something difficult; it is the voice of a weary survivor.  
>It is the kind of voice that comes around once in a lifetime; it is the sound of someone's soul.<p>

"So... where are you, Ashley Davies?" Spencer questions aloud, her words barely above a whisper as the rain continues to fall a little harder outside. She keeps looking at the cassette, almost willing it to talk back and to answer her.

In that state of mind, it is no wonder that Spencer feels her heart actually stop in her chest when a loud pounding resonates from the driver side window. The tape slips from her hold, tumbling off her lap and to the floor of the car.  
>"May I help you?" A man asks with a kind of forced enunciation, slowed down as if for a child, and with his wet fist still pressed against the surface of the window.<br>Spencer begins to catch her breath, reaching out to subtly push the button that will lock the doors but she also opens the window a tiny crack.  
>"I'm looking for someone." Spencer replies, making note of how the rain is sliding off the man's coat in rivulets and how each blink of his eyelids sends more nature-made tears down his face.<br>"Who?"  
>"Ashley Davies."<p>

It's kind of a brief and strange reaction but, really, Spencer cannot be sure. She had, after all, just been spooked to the point of possibly having a heart-attack. Her own perception of things is likely colored by her nerves being suddenly shot all to hell.  
>Still, though, at the mention of Ashley Davies, a fleeting look of alarm seems to shadow this man's face and then it vanishes.<br>Maybe, Spencer quickly decides, it was never there to begin with.

"Perhaps we should go inside before we are washed away." The man states, whatever Spencer thought she saw completely gone from his person and his lips form a gentle smile.  
>She may have been raised in a somewhat small town in Ohio, though nowhere near as tiny as Morgantown appeared to be, but living in the wilds of New York has taught Spencer that you don't just get out of your car because some guy smiles at you.<br>As if sensing her dilemma, the man starts fishing around in his coat pocket and produces a driver's license. He holds it up in the gray light of this stormy afternoon for Spencer to see.  
>"Reverend Watson Stovall." Spencer recites and the man nods at her pleasantly enough, motioning for her to follow him as he darts towards the brick entranceway of the church.<br>Spencer looks at her cell-phone which, wonderfully, still has a strong signal. She puts the keys for this rental car in her right hand, letting the carefully cut ridges slip between her middle and fourth finger.  
>Honestly, she is not even sure why she is feeling <strong>this<strong> paranoid. There are far more dangers back in the city, with subways late at night and parties that fall in the wrong borough.  
>This is just Morgantown, Mississippi.<p>

"Stop being such a pussy, Carlin."

With that determined utterance, Spencer squares her shoulders, grabs her laptop bag, and opens the door, running as she tries to avoid the massive puddles forming everywhere on the asphalt. Reverend Watson Stovall waits for her, holding the black-glass door open and still smiling warmly as she approaches.

"Welcome, Ms...?"  
>"Carlin."<br>"Welcome, Ms. Carlin, to the Morgantown Church of God, one of the oldest Pentecostal congregations in Mississippi. May the Lord bless you in your time with us." The Reverend says, his smile growing broader as he ushers her into the carpeted foyer.

She stands there, water dripping off of her at various points, as the Reverend removes his coat and lightly shakes it before hanging it up. He turns to her, rubbing his hands together.

"So, let us visit for a while, Ms. Carlin."

She takes an involuntary step backwards and chances a pretty fake smile as well, eager to fob off this Holy Roller before he can get started. There is a fixed purpose for her being in this little town and it is not to hear the ramblings of a man of God.

"Oh, no, really, I just need to find Ashley Davies. If you could tell me where she is, that would be great."  
>"Ms. Carlin..." The Reverend speaks once more with that deliberately slow tone, his accent becoming thicker with the lack of verbal speed. "There is a storm beating down the bushes out there and we are both soaked through to the bone. Surely you have time to dry off<strong> and <strong>to find Ashley Davies?"

It is a rush of irrational reasoning that causes Spencer to want to refute the Reverend's assertion. However, the man is right. She has nothing but time now that she is down here.  
>She even wants to deny the fact that the threads of this pursuit are already piquing her interest, causing long dormant flames to flare up in her body in the form of questions without apparent answers.<br>But the denial trick is not working for the spark is now lit.

It is the spark of a tale untold and the heat of knowing she will be the one to discover it.

It is just as Aiden predicted.

"Alright, Reverend Stovall," Spencer replies more firmly, that placid smile fading and it is replaced by one of more confidence, "let's visit then."

**)( )( )(**


	5. four

**)( )( )(**

The first thing that Spencer notices is the floor of the kitchen in the Morgantown Church of God. Not just the color of it, a worn pattern of pale yellow flowers against dulled cream-colored linoleum, but the actual feel of it underneath her footfalls. It is the kind of floor that subtly sinks as you step upon it, the hardness of the surface lost over time due to the endless parade of the devout.

These little facts register in Spencer's mind quickly because they trigger a memory of a sort. This floor conjures up a swatch of time easily stored away and mostly forgotten, a flash of her mother's face peeking around the door of another kitchen in another church.  
>Spencer remembers sitting on that floor, scuffed up dress shoes on her five-year-old feet and a stiff curtain of white lace near her neck.<br>Spencer hated being in dresses even at that young age.  
>Still, her mother cooed over her and pressed a bright red lipstick kiss to her cheek, tugging Spencer up and telling her to leave Mrs. Hendrix alone as the dishes were being washed clean.<p>

The cake was gone. The Kool-Aid was already a stain on Spencer's mouth. The day of festivities was officially over.

When her mother pulled her up and moved her along, Spencer felt the floor cradle each and every push of her heel, each and every imprint of her shiny-tipped toes.

"Coffee or tea, Ms. Carlin?"

Reverend Stovall's voice breaks through Spencer's sudden reverie. She quickly blinks away the past, taking in Reverend Stovall's pleased expression and the somewhat ancient-looking kettle in his hands.

"Oh, um, coffee is fine but really you don't need to go to any trouble-"  
>"It is no trouble, Ms. Carlin. You are a guest here and it would be rude not to offer you something."<br>"Okay, if you insist."  
>"It's the least I can do for getting you out in the storm. Though, if you are to spend much time here, you'll find that storms come and go as fast as rabbits out of a burrow. One has to become good at ducking raindrops in Morgantown." He finishes with another smile, motioning for Spencer to take a seat at the table as he fills the kettle with tap water.<p>

It could just be a healthy dose of southern hospitality and maybe Spencer has spent far too long in New York, away from things like friendly neighbors and people waving at you from behind the steering wheel of a car just because they can, but she just cannot shake the feeling that there is a note of falseness in all of Reverend Stovall's calm cheer.

However, a mug of hot coffee and several packets of Sweet-N-Low are handed over to her with Reverend Stovall's kindly advice of, "Drink up before you catch your death.", and Spencer feels like, perhaps, it is all her own cynicism coming light. There is this wall of distrust built up within her, bricks from a business that tells her to pander and from a city that will eat a person alive if you show weakness; there are layers of cement made up of a family that has fallen from grace and of a faith that was trampled long ago.

Spencer wonders, for a second, if she has forgotten what it is like to be around nice people.

Spencer wonders, for a second, if she has forgotten how to be a nice person as well.

Again, these are thoughts that she normally does not have. If these thoughts do happen to pop up, brought on by overly maudlin emotions around certain holidays, Spencer is well-versed in being able to control them. Like a pet she must keep on a leash, Spencer reins in wild impulses such as pondering moments of old grief and anger, and only allows those paws to walk where she deems safe. This is what she will do right now as well; she'll tug on that beast until it gives up and submits to her wishes.

Spencer stirs in one packet of sugar and yanks on that leash with a firm sense of purpose.

"Does Ashley Davies work here at the church?" She asks as she sets the spoon aside and takes a sip of the still too bitter drink. Reverend Stovall's simple smile turns into a bit of a smirk and the man even emits a small chuckle.  
>"I can say with great certainty, Ms. Carlin, that Ashley Davies wouldn't throw a pail of water on these walls if they were burning, much less serve the Lord by working here."<p>

Spencer can feel her eyebrows rise slightly at his comment, but decides to file that tidbit of information away and pursue the implications later.

"Well then, I guess the mystery is why I would have a cassette tape, with Ashley Davies name on it, from this address. Any ideas on that, Reverend?"  
>"I'm afraid not, Ms. Carlin. Neither Ashley Davies nor her sister is a part of this congregation. They have both chosen to turn away from God's forgiveness and mercy."<p>

Spencer clears her throat and takes another sip of the coffee, using whatever means available to avoid the urge to roll her eyes or possibly get into a frank discussion on what is most assuredly their differing opinions on the nature of God's 'good' side. She isn't here for a lesson in morality.

Spencer is here in Morgantown, ultimately, because a woman's song has re-ignited her creative instincts and Spencer finds that she is not as ready to let that die down as she once thought.

"Can you tell me where Ashley Davies lives? Or even where her sister lives so I can bother her instead of you?" Spencer questions with a charming grin, the kind she breaks out every so often when she wants to guide a person away from the proverbial ledge and make them want to tell her things.  
>With musicians, this works all too well. Most of them want to talk about themselves anyway. Quite a few of them, backstage and jacked up on a multitude of prescription drugs, tell her far more than she would ever care to know.<br>"You'll have a hard time pinning down Ashley, Ms. Carlin. Her sister, Kyla, on the other hand, will be easy enough to find. Their mother's home is the only one still standing off the west side of the Pearl River. Most of the other places that were that close to the water got destroyed in the last hurricane that came through but not the Davies house."

Once more, Spencer takes note of the tone of Reverend Stovall's voice and tries to decipher whatever hidden meaning is there. She can't help but wonder about the possible reasons why his words can go from congenial to insinuating within a few statements - and why Ashley Davies seems to be at the heart of this verbal shifting.  
>Despite her natural curiosity, Spencer tells herself that these musings must take a back-seat to the more pressing matter of actually <strong>finding<strong> Ashley Davies.  
>Right now, that name is just a voice on a tape and a probable thorn in Reverend Stovall's side.<p>

Right now, Ashley Davies is still a shadow and Spencer needs to bring the woman into the light.

"May I ask what was on the cassette tape, Ms. Carlin?" The Reverend's inquiry slides into Spencer's ears in a gentle manner but there is an intense quality to his steady gaze that brings back just a touch of Spencer's previous feelings of seemingly random anxiousness.  
>She refuses to give in to that feeling, though. It's just another lead to hold tightly to, just another chain to lash to the post.<br>Spencer creates a shield with her arms as she crosses them over her chest. It is partly for herself and, strange as it may be, it is partly for the still ambiguous Ashley Davies. A small part of Spencer feels defensive on behalf of the woman whose voice carries out over that cassette tape, the woman whose character is being politely stepped on by the man sitting opposite.

"On that cassette tape is a song, Reverend Stovall, and it is one of loveliest songs I've heard in a long time."

Spencer matches his stare unflinchingly. He nods his head, like he almost agrees with her, like he might have heard Ashley Davies sing and knows just how goodthe woman sounds, just how completely raw and intriguing her ability obviously is.

"Seems like she's got real talent. You could even say it is God-given." Spencer continues, her voice becoming quite pointed in its delivery. Reverend Stovall smiles at her and, much like all his other smiles, it is calm and peaceful and still bizarrely capable of seeming false.

"If only it were God-given, Ms. Carlin, but Ashley Davies has forsaken any chance at gifts from the kingdom of Heaven. That pretty voice is nothing more than a curse."

And for the first time in a very long time, Spencer has no idea what to say. There is no witty comeback or derisive gesture. She's not sure if she is stunned or annoyed - or both.  
>Before she can even try to formulate a response, the Reverend is up and clearing away the cups of coffee, chatting amiably about how it appears the storm has passed. He continues speaking in a cheerful manner even as he ushers a still silent Spencer from the kitchen and back towards the exit, telling her which direction she will need to go to find the Davies house from the church.<p>

Spencer's hand is on the cool glass of the door, more than ready to push it open and step back out into the washed out skies of this late Mississippi afternoon, but Reverend Stovall's voice once again keeps her standing still.

"It is sort of strange that you would end up here in looking for Ashley Davies, Ms. Carlin. Morgantown is not a large town, as I am sure you've guessed by now, so this meeting of ours truly should have never happened... don't you agree?"

Spencer is facing the doors and so, this time, does not rein in the subtle sigh that passes her lips before turning to face the Reverend once more. She delivers a rather curt smile and unzips her laptop bag, shuffling through a couple of papers before finding the crumpled envelope that the cassette tape came in. Spencer pulls the envelope out and lightly waves it between the two of them.

"Yea, it's a little strange, but this is the address I got and so that's what I told the internet. But, you know, Google Maps isn't infallible. Mistakes **do** occur."

Reverend Stovall reaches out and grabs the envelope, holding it steady by the right corner as Spencer's fingers remain at the left corner. His eyes peer over the surface and then that gaze flickers to meet Spencer's own somewhat peeved expression.

"Ah, but there are no mistakes in this world, Ms. Carlin." The Reverend's voice is soft and sure, coupled with another fathomless smile, as he forces the envelope back around and allows his index finger to point at address.  
>Spencer looks at the letters first, following the curves of every 'o' and taking in the sharp slant of every 'm'. She then moves on to numbers, digits placed on this envelope with fine black strokes, and she recalls how often they are repeated on her printed out directions.<p>

"One-four-five... one?" Spencer says aloud, the words coming off as confused as her mind is starting to feel, and then she is digging into her bag. She is pulling out the directions and every mention of the address reads as '1454'.  
>Blue eyes track back to the envelope and look at the numbers once more, noticing for the first time the faintest of smears off of that last figure, magically changing a four into a one.<p>

Reverend Watson Stovall's face is impassive as he returns the envelope to Spencer's frozen grasp. He steps past her, opening both of the doors to the church and a blast of muggy post-storm breeze meanders in - humid and heavy against the skin.

"As I said, the Davies house is to your right, Ms. Carlin, about six miles or so. It's not far from the banks of the Pearl River, very hard to miss. If you do get lost, though, just keep looking for one-four-five-one this time, alright?"

His comment, though, runs right through Spencer's brain. She focuses on putting the pages and the envelope back into her bag. She concentrates on walking past the Reverend, on keeping the strap of her bag on her suddenly tense shoulder, and on unlocking the rental car. The Reverend waves from the entrance and then the doors close behind him, blocking out anyone who may want to see in.

Spencer's cell phone comes to life at that moment, flashing Aiden's number, but she just tosses the phone to the passenger seat. And there it is, on the floor by her feet, there's the cassette tape that has brought her to this town.

There it is, sitting quietly and with no song currently being sung, there is every reason that Spencer will use to ignore this nagging doubt and these slightly unsettled feelings.

There it is, that damn near perfect voice, calling from somewhere in Spencer's own memories and from some concealed nook of the Mississippi landscape - and Spencer is determined to follow this road until she is satisfied with the destination.

Spencer only looks once at the Morgantown Church of God sign as she drives away, opting to shove away any thoughts as to how numbers could just alter over-night.

**)( )( )(**


	6. five

**)( )( )(**

The paved road, which is weathered to the point that the yellow center line is almost invisible, comes to an end and turns to a mixture of red dirt and sand. The weeds stand up tall and proud in the middle of this unkempt and narrow path, surely brushing the underneath of Spencer's rental car as the tires carry her forward in well-worn ruts.

On either side of her automobile are even taller waves of grass; a cattail or two and places where the brush is taking over and running roughshod over everything else. Her eyes cannot see beyond the fray of nature left alone to flourish, so it seems like a magic trick when she turns a slight corner and a house suddenly appears before her.

It's the right number this time, Spencer notes as she slowly comes to a stop by the mail-box and allows the engine to idle. Much like her somewhat simultaneously wary and curious gaze took in the Morgantown Church of God, Spencer remains in the rental car to study the home standing quietly opposite of her. She can see where wind and water have taken their toll upon the wood - the nicks and the cuts and the wounds of hurricanes and floods evident as what was once a shade of healthy brown is now the gray of oceanic drifts. She notices the debris from storms past still lingering to the side; a fallen tree, partially dismantled and with chunks of the ground still clinging to its exposed roots. The afternoon sun, particularly bright after the brief rain, glints dully off the patchwork-like tin roof of silver and rust.

It is exactly the kind of thing one would expect when falling into the wilds of Mississippi – if you were the kind of person to buy into stereotypes. Spencer would like to think she is not that kind of person at all. She'd like to be bigger than that and not judge a book by its cover and so on and so forth. But everything in Mississippi so far has made Spencer feel like she is stuck somewhere between the pages of the Bible and absolutely nowhere at all. There is a prevailing sense of being removed from the world or, at the very least, removed from the world Spencer has grown to call home.

New York is home now, with its population-induced heat and pop-culture at every stoplight and two a.m. Chinese buffets and all the sarcasm and all the cynicism. New York has seeped into her bloodstream and she is now loathe to rectify the matter.

And yet, even with her nagging internal voice conjuring up 'Deliverance'-style fears, Spencer remembers the feeling of being in a small town.

She remembers the sensation of bare feet sinking into wet grass when she would chase after her brothers and the way all three of them would slip into the surrounding woods; they would build fortresses and castles and command posts in those giant trees. She recalls knowing the names of every neighbor; Bill Mees and the sprinkler he'd set up just so she could run through it every summer; The Russell's' and their daughter, Grace, and how the two of them would spend the warm nights laying on the lawn and they'd talk about everything and watch the stars. Spencer remembers snows three feet deep and school actually being canceled and the whole town would come together – to clean driveways, to offer hot chocolate, to pelt kids with snowballs and laugh out loud.

Spencer remembers the feeling of that little town in Ohio and all of its delicate charm – as perfect and as vulnerable as a butterfly's wing.

But Spencer remembers why she was so eager to leave that little town in Ohio, too. She remembers and gives credence to those reasons far more than any other memory of what once was.

The slam of a door pulls Spencer swiftly back to the present. A young woman pauses halfway down the front steps of the house and a brown-eyed stare latches onto Spencer's face.  
>Spencer opens the door of the car and pops her head up, offering her 'working' smile, the same one she used for a moment with Reverend Stovall in order to get what she wanted.<p>

She's not sure it actually worked on the Reverend, though.

Spencer is not sure that smile of hers will work with this woman either, considering the way that brown-eyed look is full of suspicion now and a tanned hand is being securely set upon a cocked-out hip in what appears to be fully rehearsed defiance.

"Look, if you are here about that electric bill, I **told** Kenny last week that I'll get you the money when I can. You can't get blood from a stone, alright? And this is private property and if you keep harassing me about this, you can just cut the **damn** electricity off and **I'll** call the police—"

Spencer waves her hands somewhat frantically in the air at this point, hoping to stop this woman's misplaced tirade before it turns into a full-on rage of some sort.

"Whoa, okay, I am not here to collect a bill or anything. I'm looking for Ashley Davies, that's all I'm doing." Spencer states, deciding to keep half of her body at the driver's side of the rental car - just in case this woman does not believe a word Spencer has said and a quick getaway is necessary.

It's an overdramatic thought, Spencer knows this, but 'better safe than sorry' is one motto that she has learned to live by. The woman's features do not lessen in their strength, however - that stance is still unafraid in the face of a stranger at the doorstep and that gaze is still watchful and wary.

"And who are **you**?" The woman asks slowly and Spencer chances another of those usually appealing smiles of hers, hoping that this time it will take affect and not keep spectacularly failing with the Morgantown natives.  
>"My name is Spencer Carlin and I work for a music magazine called <em>To the Ground<em>, in New York, and we received a cassette tape—"  
>"Oh my God… Oh my <strong>God<strong>, really? You **really** got that tape I sent in?" The woman exclaims, all of the harsh attitude draining away and replaced by a very wide grin. Spencer cannot help the small chuckle that winds its way up from her chest and gently passes through her lips at this woman's shocked and pleased expression.

Of course, this kind of moment is what Aiden wanted her to truly find with a beautiful song and with a flight out of that gorgeously broken city – he wanted Spencer Carlin to find some joy again. Not just in the sounds of a melody, not just in the chase of a story unknown, but for the idea that what she is doing for a living is more than just words on a page and money in the bank.

It is a first step. It is a beginning to a tale unfinished. It is a chance to regain some forgotten trick – quarters from behind the ear, silk scarves turned into roses, paragraphs becoming prose, and a story that can illustrate everyone's dreams.

"So, am I right in thinking that **you** are Ashley Davies?" Spencer questions and the woman shakes her head quickly.  
>"No, I'm Kyla, Kyla Davies. Ashley is my sister."<br>"Oh, well… o…kay—" Spencer sort of stutters the words but Kyla Davies either doesn't notice or doesn't care because she just continues on in her excitement.  
>"This is just <strong>wild<strong>, you know? I sent so many copies of that tape to the radio stations here in Mississippi and to one of the television stations in Gulfport, but no one ever got in touch. I just took a chance in mailing one up to your magazine, you know? And **look**! Here you are!"

Kyla's grin is incandescent and filled with triumph as she leaves the house steps behind and approaches Spencer, who is still wedged between the interior of the rental car and the car door.

"Here I am." Spencer says with a tad less enthusiasm than this Kyla Davies is displaying. And the answer for this reaction is simple enough – Spencer is close but not yet at the prize. Kyla sent the tape, probably to help a sibling possibly 'make it big', but Ashley Davies is still missing in action.

"And you're in luck, too, Miss… Carlin was it?"  
>"Yea, Spencer Carlin."<br>"Right. So, as I was sayin', you are in luck because me and the girls are riding up to Monticello to see Ashley play at this bar tonight. We always try to go when she is making the rounds close by."  
>"'Making the rounds?'" Spencer repeats aloud as Kyla pulls a cell-phone out from the purse hanging from her shoulder and texts someone with rapid precision.<br>"Uh huh. Ashley likes to kick around locally for a bit, hook up with some guys she liked to play with from when we were kids. Know what I mean?"  
>"...Sure, I know what you mean."<p>

Kyla finishes the texting and looks back up at Spencer with that grin still in place, tapping the hood of the rental car with the palm of her hand.

"I just sent a message to Sharon, one of the girls going tonight, and she's going to pick us up in a few. Then we'll grab Kaye and hit the road. Won't take long to get there or anything, plus, since Ashley is playin', we should be able to get some free beers. We'll make a real night of it for you, Spencer Carlin."

As if attempting to wake Spencer up from a complete and total daze, the cell-phone in Spencer's pocket buzzes and reminds the journalist of Aiden Dennison back in New York - who she has yet to touch base with. That persistent buzzing also reminds Spencer of all the things she has yet to get in order for the duration of this seek-and-find musical adventure – most specifically a place to sleep.  
>And the more that Spencer snaps out of her brief stupor, the more she realizes the fact that getting into a car with virtual strangers is not the smartest move to make in any state or in any world – even if it means meeting the person behind the voice on a cassette tape.<p>

So, Spencer tries to snag this ball and put it back in her comfortable court.

"Kyla, I** really **appreciate the offer for the, uh, road-trip but I actually still need to get a room for the night and call my boss back before he thinks I got lost somewhere. Maybe when you see Ashley tonight you could tell her I'm in town and we can set up an interview—"

Once again, Kyla Davies interrupts Spencer's train of verbal thought. It must be some kind of habit for the brown-eyed woman; the manner in which Kyla cuts off Spencer is as quick and decisive as her fingers were on that cell-phone.

"There's a rat-trap motel about twenty miles from here and you **don't** want to stay there, I can promise you that. Besides, I got you to come down here and everything, so it's only right that you stay at our house."

Spencer can feel her eyes grow wide and she swallows nervously, not liking where this going. She is not one to give up her bubble of privacy, preferring a certain amount of solitude in which to work and to rest and to do whatever else she may or may not want to do. She's never had a roommate out here in the 'real' world. The one time she had to share a space with someone was in college and it did not end on a high note.

The girl was obsessed with Fall Out Boy and Spencer took great pleasure in writing a scathing review of one of their albums in the school paper. They were never very friendly with one another to begin with but a singular Spencer Carlin-penned piece drove the final nail in that temporary relationship.

The last thing Spencer wants to do is to try and write a story while sleeping in the house of the story's subject – it won't be good for anyone involved to get that close.

"Oh, Kyla, uh, that's **real **nice of you and all but I can't stay here. I mean, it's your house and I would be intruding—"  
>"It's no trouble at all, I swear. Look, this way you can come with us tonight and meet Ashley and not have to worry 'bout getting to some hotel that's too far away. It'll be late when we get back and wouldn't it be better to just crash here? It'll save you money, too, you know?"<p>

Spencer wants to call Aiden. She wants to call Aiden and curse him for sending her down here, the return of journalistic passion notwithstanding. Spencer wants to tell Kyla Davies to shut up and stop interrupting her at every turn. Spencer wants to grab that cassette tape and shake it in irritation for being too intriguing to ignore, for being too damn good to throw into the trash-bin.

But, most of all, Spencer wants Morgantown to have a fucking hotel.

Of course, as a beloved song once declared, 'you can't always get what you want'.

Spencer just isn't sure she will get what she needs either.

A car pulls up alongside Spencer's rental and announces itself with two speedy blows of the horn.

"So, you coming along, Spencer? It'll be great, I promise. We'll take good care of you." Kyla swears as she walks towards the passenger side of this newest automotive arrival. And, really, Spencer does not have another option if she wants the story, if she wants to see if Ashley Davies is as talented as the song on that tape implies.

If Spencer Carlin wants to maintain this fire and see if it'll continue to grow, then Spencer Carlin will have to step out of her comfort zone.

"Okay. Let's go." Spencer agrees with a soft sigh.

**)( )( )(**


	7. six

**)( )( )(**

One of the traits that all good music journalists should have is the ability to observe.

Anyone can ask questions of another person; anyone can nod their head and say to a friend, "That was the greatest song I have ever heard!" But it takes a crazy amount of patience to sit back, to opt to wait instead of babbling on at length, and to savor the silent realizations that come with being quiet and seeing an artist perform.

The same can be said for the simple art of studying other people in general.

The things that one can learn about the nature of human beings only increases when the words cease to fall out of your mouth and you become the watcher of the world. It is a chance to see people at their most honest, after all, because body language and the random, yet ingrained, gestures of everyday life cannot lie.

Words, though, can be beautifully deceptive.

Spencer knows all about words and how they can pretty a picture up; how words can turn crap into gold; how words can be used like smoke and mirrors when you do not want to see what is right in front of you. It is a part of her professional existence – to string phrases and thoughts together and make a reader fall in love with an artist or an album – and it is a part of her other life, too.

That other life, usually in the shadows where Spencer likes to keep it, seems to be knocking on the door more frequently these days. That other life, looking better than it ever truly was, is a mirage in the mirror of Spencer's mind and she cannot seem to shake the feeling that everything is way too close to the surface now. The memories and sensations and dreams, all of them fading like the seasons, but still able to rock the boat and send Spencer reeling into choppy waters.

Spencer is busy watching the other women in this car and that other life is busy watching Spencer.

For now, she'll blame Mississippi and the humidity that does not die with the enveloping evening for all this pointless introspection. To look further inward, to maybe pick apart the real reasons, is a terrifying thought and Spencer is already unsettled on this journey.

The leash is in her hand; time to jerk that pup back onto the sidewalk.

The conversation within Sharon's car has rambled on – one minute, it is calm and then the next minute it is shrill laughter filling up the cabin. It reminds Spencer, briefly, of high school days. There is a certain way that young women talk to one another, equal parts friendly and bitchy. It is the chatter atop bleachers and over phone lines. It is the snark that hovers around classrooms and the gossip that curls around the ear.

Spencer would like to save her somewhat decent amount of hipster cred and say that she was never that kind of girl, but that would be a sad little lie to tell.  
>She was <strong>exactly<strong> that kind of girl for the first two years of high school – less _The Breakfast Club_, more _Heathers_… at least, the early part of the film, where it was all matching clothes and too much attitude.

Spencer isn't even sure why she acted like that back in those days.

Then again, that could be just another tiny white lie Spencer tells herself in order not to truly see.

"Do you mind if I smoke, Spencer?"  
>"What's New York like?"<br>"So you **really** think Ashley is good?"

The questions bounce around like that for a while and Spencer does her best to answer each one with a smile – a slightly put-upon smile, but a smile nonetheless.

And as Spencer replies, she does some of that casual observing.

Spencer notices the way Sharon, the woman at the wheel, tilts her head as she listens to whomever is talking and the lazy way her honey-brown hair tumbles down with the leaning. Sharon rolls her eyes at a couple of comments and taps her cigarette through the crack of the window. There is a delicate kind of highlighting on Sharon's face – a touch of blush, a glimmer of lip gloss – and when Sharon smiles, an echo of wicked thoughts linger along that mouth; a shade of bitterness hovers about that grin.

Kaye is the one with the laughter that could cause glass to shatter. It is the amusement of the guileless, the sort of thing that most people lose track of as they progress from child to adult. Kaye, however, has retained this type of honest joy and Spencer knows that any annoyance that flares up inside is more than likely born of envy rather than true dislike. Kaye's eyes, a wonderful shade of pale blue, seem to dance with all the inquiries she directs at Spencer - body comfortably turned around in the passenger seat as the car jostles along curves and flies down greater highways than Morgantown can offer.

And, lastly, there is Kyla Davies, the one who kicked off this merry little chase that Spencer has found herself on and the current presence at Spencer's side in the back-seat of Sharon's car. Of course, Spencer took in quick details as she stood with her rental car and Kyla faced her down from the porch steps - brunette hair and dark eyes and tan skin; a determined scowl upon full lips.

Now, as they ride to Monticello, Spencer is able to get a better kind of look at this woman.

Kyla Davies still has the fresh-faced sheen of a girl enjoying their youth, living from paycheck to paycheck and content to drink the night away in some bar with her friends. Kyla may have to deal with bill collectors every once in a while but she'll forget them once she shuts the door.  
>Unlike Sharon, Kyla does not carry the gaze of someone a little too hardened about life or love or any of the other things that like to trip up the world at large. And unlike Kaye, Kyla does not appear to meander through existence in a subtle state of blissful ignorance.<p>

Kyla Davies is a woman resting between realms; ready to face down intruders at the gate or spend good money on sending tapes to magazines and radio stations. Spencer is sure that Kyla has her own dreams – talents ripe for the picking – but they are being shoved aside for a sister with a damn good voice.

It is the kind of noble action that can turn to regret, though.

It is the kind of abdicating that can lead to future revolts – if one is not careful.

And just as Spencer knows about the power of words, Spencer also knows about the dangers of suppression.

However, Spencer could be reading these three women all wrong. It could be the heat and the toll of the flight finally catching up with her; it could be the talk with Reverend Stovall and the memories that just won't shut up anymore; it could be a million and one different things that are making Spencer feel like these early judgments of character could be completely off-base and very wrong.

It could be that Spencer is the one actually caught between realms; the world she left behind and the world she is so desperate to hold on to. The world of her career, of New York, of the type of freedom that carries a hefty price – this is the universe she is forging at the expense of Ohio and of her broken family; at the expense of the God that Reverend Stovall reveres and of the God that the elusive Ashley Davies apparently flees from.

And just as Spencer knows how to find all the stories that a musician doesn't want to tell, Spencer also knows how to conveniently lose each and every one of her own lengthy tales.

At Kyla's question, Spencer easily slips back into the journalist persona and she is still able to rein in those increasingly dominant thoughts of weary introspection – still able to make the dog walk where she wants it to, still able to play this game, still able to stay aloft on the tightrope and pretend that falling is but a distant joke.

It'll work for now, that's what Spencer tells herself once more and begs the notion to stick.

"I'll know more once I can hear her live but if she is half as good as she is on the tape then I'll have nothing but positive things to write about her." Spencer answers with a quick and easy smile.  
>Kyla grins back and delivers a confident nod of the head. "You won't be disappointed, Spencer."<br>"Will Ashley have to go with you and make an album?" Kaye asks, still turned around with the seat-belt stretched tight across the woman's shoulder.  
>"Oh, well, no-" Spencer replies and a soft chuckle coming from Sharon cuts into the conversation.<br>"She just writes for a magazine, Kaye." Sharon states as another cigarette butt is crushed into the slightly full ash-tray and the last whispers of smoke mingle with the combined scents of each woman's perfume.

It's enough to give Spencer a headache - if she didn't already kind of have one, that is.

Quite a few hours have passed since Spencer left JFK and that over-priced bag of peanuts. So now, Spencer is not only slightly bewildered and a little tired due to the turn of events since she has been in Mississippi but Spencer is also really, really hungry.

Once they hit this dive in Monticello, with its prerequisite dotting of motorcycles and rusted trucks around the gravel parking lot, the first comment out of Spencer's mouth is about food.

"Seriously, a bowl of stale pretzels will do at this point."  
>"Samuel has whipped up sandwiches in the back before, you know, for Ashley and the guys. I'm sure we can get you something, don't you worry about it." Kyla assures Spencer with another confident nod of the head. Kaye is already darting for the entrance and Sharon is smoking once more, walking slowly with her small purse swinging back and forth as it hangs from one hand. Spencer starts to follow the other two but Kyla grabs a hold of her forearm – a brief but solid tug that is meant to make someone halt and turn back.<p>

"Uh, Spencer, just so you know… I, uh, didn't tell Ashley about all this, okay? So if you wanna say you are friends with Kaye or Sharon, just so she'll open up a bit more, then that might be for the best."

Spencer can feel her own shoulders sag at Kyla's admission and it takes all the energy she has left not to turn around and walk all the way back to Gulfport and to the first flight back to her nice place in the city that never sleeps. But there is a story to be found here and this story just waits for Spencer's particular touch.

And so Spencer cannot give up, even when a part of her thinks it would be for the best to run away as fast as she possibly can.

"Why didn't you tell Ashley what you were doing for her?" Spencer inquires as they walk, side by side, towards the door that Sharon and Kaye have already disappeared behind.  
>Kyla sighs heavily and bites down onto her bottom lip, as if she is debating on how much to divulge to this new person in their midst.<p>

The words that Kyla ends up saying make sense to Spencer. The sentences fall off of Kyla's tongue with equal amounts of trepidation and tiredness; it is the sound of a sister's love for a sibling, sure, but also the sound of one woman's drive and another woman's resistance.

"I'm just afraid she'll never get out of here, you know? Ashley's got something special, something **real** special, and I won't stand by and watch her waste it."

To Spencer, though, there is the faint ringing of another story in Kyla's voice – a story that goes far beyond that of a song on a cassette tape.

It is brief peel of awareness that Spencer does her best to acknowledge but those thoughts are quickly swallowed up by the opening of the bar door; the curiosity that niggles at Spencer's brain is left out in the parking lot with the sensation of Kyla's hand on Spencer's back as the woman ushers the two of them inside.

**)( )( )( **


	8. seven

**)( )( )(**

If this place has an actual name, the kind you would find on a deed or in a newspaper article, then no one has seen fit to mention it so far. For all intents and purposes, Spencer will only ever know of this dive in Monticello, Mississippi as 'Samuel's Bar'.

But do places such as these actually need a real name? Even in those high-priced cities, with their steel counter-tops and their alcoholic beverages made up of exotic combinations, one can find a bar like Samuel's. This type of establishment is a familiar sight to Spencer Carlin, reminding her of those days when she was first in New York and had not yet met the fairly influential Aiden Dennison – his magazine was still just a title that the vendors sold on the sidewalks.

She once wrote for a little local rag, the sort of publication you find in coffee-houses or littered around the halls of cheaper colleges. It was not a job that paid well but it afforded Spencer the opportunity to get her feet wet, so to speak, and to check out the local talent – of which there is much in a town as worldly and as bloated as the Big Apple.

Spencer caught sight of those who could go far if they followed through; three-piece rock sets that would set the crowd to flailing or the screaming punk of some young charge that would wake up those four in the morning stragglers; sweet sounding women who would somehow take the words that everyone has heard before and make them sound brand new.

Spencer also saw the complete and utter crap that was out there, too.

People in it for the money that might come their way if they droned on and on to wasted kids; if they wore enough black, if they mixed hip-hop with death-metal, if they would fight with the other members of their band on stage and bleed a little – Spencer saw a lot more of this kind of musician in those early days of her career than she did of the truly gifted.

All these wannabe-superstars had a gimmick of some kind and Spencer would sit there at the bar, notepad in one hand and a beer in the other, and she would silently dismiss the whole affair.

For all their shock, they were not Alice Cooper or The Sex Pistols.  
>For all their sadness, they were not Elliot Smith or Billie Holiday.<br>For all their trying, they were never even close to what they wanted to be and Spencer would walk out before the first song would finish.

Samuel's Bar is just another vision of all those other bars that Spencer has stepped in to and drank beer at and listened to music within.

This bar, just like all the others, keeps the lights at low levels in order for the patrons to hide – perhaps from the fact that they drink too much or that they have nowhere else to go or to cover up the desperate need to find someone to take home for a night.

And yet, it is within those dimly lit spaces that the true nature of a person tends to shine on through anyway.

A place like this reveals the way Sharon's eyes stay on the stage, as if Sharon is more eager for the show to start than the woman might like to admit to anyone else. A place like this adds a layer of knowing to Kaye's expressions that were lost in the car ride, as if the woman is perfectly aware of how she may be viewed by others and does not give a damn.

A place like this one lights upon Kyla Davies and heightens the curious mixture of excitement and anxiety that the woman carries in her gaze.

Spencer couples what Kyla said outside of Samuel's with the look on the woman's face right now and is left wondering which story she'll end up with once all things are said and done. Will it be the story of a powerful voice calling up from the Deep South? Or will it be the story of the gnawing fears that one sister has for that other sibling?

Will it be the story that Spencer merely uses to refresh her love of well-crafted criticism and praise?

Or will another narrative continue to unfold whether Spencer wishes it or not?

Out of the corner of her eye, Spencer notices Kyla darting up and moving past tables to the bar. The woman comes back with a pitcher of beer, four glasses, and grin.

"On the house. Oh, and Samuel's bringing you something, too, Spencer." Kyla says happily. The woman proceeds to fill up each glass to the rim and then clinks her own glass to the other three before taking an impressive pull of whatever the tap is offering tonight. Spencer takes a sip as well, realizing with faint disappointment that it is light beer in all its dull glory.

A plate arrives in front of Spencer soon enough, a piece of chipped china holding what appears to be a grilled-cheese sandwich. Normally, this 'meal' of melted cheese and butter-fried bread would not rate very high on Spencer Carlin's palette choices. However, beggars can't be choosers and Spencer thinks that this sandwich might be the best thing ever – or, at the very least, the best thing in Monticello, Mississippi.

"Don't you girls think I am going to do this all the time, alright? Free beer is one thing but I'm no cook."

A man's voice states up above Spencer's head and Spencer watches her happy trio of abductors nod their heads in pleased compliance.  
>"No troubles there, Samuel. Promise." Sharon agrees, tipping her own glass for a drink and then turning her eyes back to the stage. Spencer lifts the sandwich up and tilts her head back, meeting Samuel's steady gaze. The man sort of towers over others and that's not just coming from Spencer's seated position either. Broad-shouldered and with an unkempt beard of white, Samuel looks like the kind of business owner who might have a shotgun behind the counter and who wouldn't hesitate to use it.<p>

He nods his head at Spencer as a greeting and she returns the gesture with a practiced ease.

"I really am thankful for this." Spencer answers with as much sincerity as a moment like this one will allow.  
>"Well, you're friends with these girls so one time won't kill me, I suppose." Samuel replies before turning away and cutting a path back to the bar. The other women continue to drink and trade idle topics of conversation while Spencer inhales the food in her hands. One sandwich won't be enough to soak up the beer that keeps being poured into her glass but Spencer has decided that the time for being too concerned about such trivial matters is long gone from this trip.<p>

_It's not like I have to drive tonight_, Spencer muses internally as she settles back in her chair and drinks from her second round of the evening. As Sharon delivers some type of gossip to Kyla and Kaye, Spencer looks around this hole-in-the-wall and gathers general information. There are the guys who prop up the bar, slightly haggard around the eyes and keeping quiet as the world moves around them.  
>There are the women who have been here just as long, too, cigarettes hanging from their tired lips as they lean against the wall and stare at everything and nothing at the same time.<p>

The closer to the stage one gets, though, and the crowd of people shifts into something else.

The tables that sit five feet or so from the edge of that glorified wooden platform are filled up with the younger set; boys in white t-shirts and with girls by their side, bottles of Budweiser littered around them; a few women on their own, tight jeans and flirty smiles directed at whoever might return the sentiment; a couple sitting off to the right side, almost touching but keeping it discreet…

Back in Ohio, all those long years ago, Spencer would have gawked a bit and then covertly watched a couple like the one in this bar. Spencer would have watched because they were a representation of a part of her. And Spencer would have lied about all that staring later because they were too much of a part of her as well.

It wasn't terribly easy to be gay in a small town in Ohio.

But Spencer figures that it is probably a million times harder to be gay in a small town in Mississippi.

The rambling thoughts come to a stop in Spencer's mind as an exuberant shout or two rings out from the table to her left, followed up by clapping coming from all around Samuel's Bar. And so Spencer looks to the stage, watching as one guy walks on and waves his hand at one of the flirty girls. He then tunes the instrument in his hands, fingers testing the strings of a worn down violin – plucking and then sliding a bow across each one as softly as he can.

The only other person to join him on stage is a woman.

Spencer feels the heat of Kyla's whisper before the words actually hit her ears.

"That's her. That's Ashley."

Under the low lights of this place, Spencer isn't sure she is getting the full depth of what Ashley Davies looks like. The glint of illumination is brief and so Spencer is saddled with more of an idea of a person than a reality.

Ashley is not as tall as the man on stage but there is a definite presence to the woman. Where most people storm the waiting audience like they are going to battle, Ashley Davies stands there with a silent sort of purpose. The woman adjusts her microphone stand and then slowly removes the acoustic guitar from where it was slung onto her back. Just like her male counterpart, Ashley works over the strings and finds whatever tune she is searching for as she works her way up the neck of the guitar and to the pegheads.

Spencer has seen all of this before, in other bars and in other towns, and the chance that this time will be any different than the hundreds of other times previous are slim. On tape is one thing and on a digital format is another, but an artist performing live is the litmus test – and there is no middle ground here.

You either succeed or you fail.

But then a soft and gentle strumming begins, Ashley's hands moving with delicacy, and the man with the violin remains quiet with his bow at the ready. Ashley leans forward and there's that voice that put Spencer on a plane, the voice that crossed technological distances within the ribbons of analog and made an impact.

This voice is clear and almost reverent, hitting the old rafters of this bar like a one-woman choir, and the sound of it drowns out the scrape of chair legs on the floor or the colliding of glass to an unseen surface.  
>It is not a loud voice, though. It is not the kind of voice that tries to fill up the spaces around them.<p>

This voice manages to float and carry without fading. Like a bell in a tower, Ashley's voice rings out without being forced. Spencer spares a quick glance at her own table of companions, noting the various levels of rapt attention being paid to the woman at the microphone. And it is like that throughout the bar, each face caught up by something lovely and fine on display so effortlessly.

Spencer returns her attention to the stage just as Ashley puts more thrust into her playing and the man by her side moves the bow quickly over the strings, the two of them now singing the same lyrics and the harmony only grows stronger. The music builds to a brief crescendo as Ashley steps back from the microphone, leaving the two musicians to parrot one another – a steady beck-and-call. Then the song dips down again, returning to the tender strains of the guitar and Ashley's voice – solitary notes to match the subdued tone – and Spencer listens to the words more closely this time around.

How each word speaks of things remembered and choices made, how these words recall either someone lost or someone never truly found – the timbre and the mood borders on romantic but underneath that notion is something deeper; underneath what could be a love song is the hint of something vaguely spiritual.

And for a second or two, Spencer feels just as she did when listening to the cassette tape, as if her past has been brought back to life – with too much color and too much emotion – and Spencer can almost swear that Ashley Davies looks right at her as the last word cascades from those lips.

But Spencer blinks and the idea that Ashley Davies actually saw her in this smoky room falls away.

The guitar regains its momentum again, going from one polarity to the next, speeding up and beating down the walls of this place. The man jumps back in, too, burning up the rosin in order to keep up with his musical partner. They slip into that special world that only performers know – the realm where it is just melody and sound and feeding off of each other; where jam bands find their niche and where rappers rapidly string together poetry set to bass and beats.

This is where talent can shine, if one has it, and Spencer Carlin is pretty damn sure that she is witnessing something close to raw perfection in the form of Ashley Davies.

The two people on stage drive the other one higher and higher before letting it all fall back down; the violin delivers one last, long cry as Ashley guides the guitar to a repetitive scale – slower and slower, until it is just one or two strings being played and then silence once more.

Spencer sits there, motionless, as the rest of the bar claps and whistles and some of the patrons knock the bottom of beer bottles against the table-tops. Kyla's happy voice is in Spencer's ear again, all warm with nerves and pride.

"She's good, isn't she? She is so **damn** good, isn't she, Spencer?" Kyla manages to exclaim these rhetorical questions in a low tone. Spencer clears her throat, pulls her gaze away from the woman on stage and is about to agree with Kyla but that cell-phone buzzing in her pants pocket startles Spencer back to the reality of what this whole trip is about.

"**Shit**. I, uh, I've **got** to answer this. It's my boss and I totally forgot to call him when I landed—"Spencer begins but, true to form, Kyla cuts the explanation short.  
>"No worries, Spencer. But you better hurry back in, okay? Ashley always follows up a slow song with a barn-burner and you <strong>don't<strong> wanna miss it. She'll get the whole gang up there and get the place to jumpin'."

As if on cue, three other guys join Ashley on stage and the crowd up close is shouting out encouragement; there are the knowing glances and the shared laughter of people who are familiar with one another – fans are friends, girls and boys that have grown up in the same town, families that never move more than five miles away – and Spencer watches as Ashley grins at one of the new musicians, the two of them jostling each other like twelve year olds on a playground.

The sight causes Spencer to duck her own head to cover up a small smile of her own, as if the gesture is one to hide or be shy about all of a sudden.

And the leash is being tugged on some more.

And it is getting harder for Spencer to hold on.

"I'll be quick." Spencer murmurs in reply, already heading for the door and for the quiet of the surrounding nighttime. She leans against the wall, back first and then her head, taking one deep breath and then exhaling. Instead of over-analyzing things for the billionth time, Spencer fishes her phone out and presses the speed-dial for Aiden's number.

It doesn't even take one ring for the man to answer.

"So is this **actually** Spencer Carlin calling me back or is it some crazy Mississippi kidnapper about to demand a ransom for my magazine writer?"

Aiden's tone is living somewhere between true concern and sarcastic annoyance. It's not like Spencer can chastise him, though. There were ample chances to take a moment and give the guy a call, let him know that she had arrived safely and that, yes, she has found Ashley Davies. But first it was Reverend Stovall and then it was Kyla and the drive to Monticello; it was too many short-cuts down memory lane and recollections of those far flung days of Spencer's youth.

_And the humidity_, Spencer jokingly remembers, _don't forget the fucking humidity_.

"Sorry, Aiden. It's been a busy ol' time since we last talked."  
>"Wow, Spencer, you are already developing local colloquialisms. What's next, hmm? Are you going set off down the river like Huck Finn?"<p>

Spencer rolls her eyes and takes her licks with as much humor as possible.

"Yep, that's the plan. I hereby resign from your **stellar** music-related periodical for a life of fishing and latent racism."

Aiden slips from his position of disapproving boss and falls into the relieved friend category with a rumbling chuckle. Spencer feels a grin slowly spread over her mouth in silent reply.

"There she is, Spencer Carlin… Seriously, though, is everything okay? I **was** a little worried."  
>"Everything is… God, I don't know, Aiden. Everything is <strong>strange<strong> so far."  
>"Care to elaborate?"<p>

Spencer sort of shakes her head in response before she gives a verbal return.

"Not really, no."

The both of them are quiet for a second or two, just enough time for Spencer to hear the music start up again inside of Samuel's. Kyla did not stretch the truth in the slightest - the sounds behind this wall are wild and vibrant, accompanied by foot stomps that echo like thunder.

"Well, can you at least tell me that you found our singer?" Aiden asks.

And Spencer listens intently; she pushes past the wood and the plaster, pushes past the swirling smoke and the yells of the drunk or the joyful; she shuts out Aiden's voice and she shuts out the incessant yapping of the animal growing stronger inside of her own body…

…and that's where Spencer finds Ashley Davies, singing like her life depends upon it.

"Yes… Yes, I've found her."

**)( )( )(**


End file.
